by M C Beaton
She had a chance to speak to the marquess at the opera. Seeing the countess had fallen asleep, the marquess made his way quietly to her box during the performance and signaled to Lucinda to step outside.
“Have you spoken to her yet about going to Partletts?” asked the marquess.
“Not yet,” said Lucinda. “She watches me so strangely the whole time now. I am afraid she might suspect something.”
“Where is your curate?”
“He is visiting some clerical friends. Besides, Grandmama considers him too socially low to bring to the opera.”
“Have you told him anything?”
“No, but his presence in the house is a great comfort.”
“Lucinda, I think what you should do is this. You must tell your grandmother you wish to go to the country for a few days and dissuade her from coming with you. Once at Partletts, we shall seek out the vicar and we will be married by special license. Write to Lady Lemmington to say that you have delayed your return. She will not wish to follow you to the country unless she suspects you are up to something.”
“Do you love me?” asked Lucinda, looking at him gravely.
“With all my heart.”
“Lucinda!”
The Countess of Lemmington stood at the entrance to the box. Fire burned in her pale eyes as she looked at the marquess.
“On your way, sirrah!” she said haughtily. “Lucinda, come here.”
Lucinda followed her grandmother into the box.
“Now,” said the countess, “what were you doing talking to Sunningburgh?”
“He called to apologize once more for stopping my wedding,” said Lucinda.
“Does that man mean to force you to marry him?”
“No, Grandmama.”
“And yet, while he lives, you cannot marry anyone else.”
“I do not wish to marry an—” Lucinda bit her lip. She had been about to say “anyone else.”
“I have not been a strict chaperone,” said the countess. “Now, I tell you this. You will avoid the Marquess of Sunningburgh on all occasions. You must trust me. I shall see you wed to some suitable gentleman. Have you really taken Sir Percival in dislike?”
“Yes, Grandmama.”
“A pity. I knew he was after your money, but that is the way things are conducted in society. You need a tender and complacent husband, one who will be commanded by you. Your upbringing has not left you the type of woman who could cope with a strong man.”
“I now do not think that is true.”
The countess sighed. “Be guided by me, Lucinda. I have not had a happy experience of the male sex.”
“But I can just remember Grandpapa,” said Lucinda, “and I remember him as being a kind and courteous gentleman.”
“I was not talking about your grandfather,” said the countess. “Enough! You shall not speak to Sunningburgh again.”
Mr. Tommy Flanders looked anxiously at his friend when the marquess returned to his box. He was entertaining Miss Jessop and her parents and their presence stopped him from asking any questions. The marquess had not spoken of Lucinda of late and had put a damper on Tommy’s curiosity in that direction.
On the road home from the opera, Lucinda wondered how to put the proposed visit to Partletts to her grandmother without rousing the old lady’s suspicions.
As their carriage swung around in front of the Bow Street magistrates court, a torn poster with a picture of Alexander’s face fluttered in the wind. The drawing was not a good likeness, but Alexander’s name was there under a WANTED sign in heavy black type.
Lucinda shivered although the night was warm. She looked sideways at her grandmother. What did she really know about the old lady? She sat there, looking so delicate and fragile, that it seem impossible she had ever committed murder.
But Lucinda felt if she delayed matters for very much longer, something terrible might happen to the marquess.
She clasped her hands tightly together and said in as light a voice as she could manage, “I miss Partletts, Grandmama, and have it in mind to go to the country for a few days next week.”
She looked straight ahead, sensing her grandmother’s pale gaze fastening on her face.
“Why this sudden desire for country air, my child?”
“I miss my home,” said Lucinda in a low voice. “You need not accompany me, Grandmama. It would be too fatiguing for you to travel that distance for only a few days.”
There was a long silence.
“Grandmama?” prompted Lucinda.
“When do you propose to travel?”
“Next Wednesday.”
“Hmph.”
Another long silence. Lucinda fidgeted nervously. What was the old lady thinking about?
The countess was thinking hard. She had been seriously disturbed to find the marquess with Lucinda. The Marquess of Sunningburgh had upset the wedding plans and had caused Lucinda distress. Without the marquess on this earth, Lucinda would be free to do as she pleased. Remove the marquess and that would take away the last horror of Lucinda’s peculiar upbringing.
If, mused the countess, Lucinda were safe in the country, then she, Lady Lemmington, could ask the Marquess of Sunningburgh to call. She would give the servants the night off and once she had the marquess to herself, she would think of something. She saw nothing strange in Lucinda’s desire to go to the country. She had always considered Lucinda’s affection for that rotting Tudor pile, Partletts, most odd.
“Are you taking Venables with you?”
“No, Grandmama. There is no need. But if you dislike him so very much, I shall send him away.”
“He’s harmless. He don’t bother me,” said the countess. “For some things, it’s handy to have a priest about the place.”
“What things?”
“The last rites. I am very old, you know, and shall not live long.”
Lucinda’s eyes filled with tears. If only her grandmother could be proved innocent. But how could she go about asking questions and investigating without putting the countess at risk?
“So I may go,” she said quietly.
“Yes, and I shall send most of the servants back with you. They do nothing but sit about eating their heads off. I have no need of the lot of them.”
“But you will need some servants!”
“A footman and one of the maids will be sufficient for my needs.”
The next day, the marquess rode along beside the upper reaches of the Thames. He was confident he would find the place where Alexander had gone over. He, the marquess, had been holding hands with Lucinda in such a state of rapture that every bit of the scenery had become etched on his brain.
He came to the quiet stretch of water where the butler had fallen off the barge and stood looking down at the sluggishly moving river. The day was close and warm and gray. All color seemed to have been bleached out of the landscape. There was no wind and the trees with their heavy summer foliage hung over the river, their reflections moving and shifting in the green water, the only moving thing in the unnaturally still landscape.
He wheeled his horse about and rode to the nearest town.
The parish constable was a fat, beefy man like a farmer. Yes, he said, he remembered the search for the butler. Not a trace had been found of him.
“But did they search the water for his body?” asked the marquess impatiently.
The constable, Mr. Meyer, scratched his round, shaved head. His grandfather had been one of the Hanoverian soldiers brought over by King George II—the king loudly and vehemently distrusting everything British, including the army—and Mr. Meyer had inherited the Teutonic features of his German ancestors.
“Well, there didn’t seem no cause,” he said. “We was told that Lady Lemmington swore she had seen him striking out for the bank. ‘Twas only a little way to swim, I reckon.”
“I want you to round up some men and search for the body,” said the marquess.
The subsequent posse was as lethargic and slow-moving a
s the constable. At last, the marquess loudly promised a generous reward to whomsoever should find the body and free beer for everyone who took part in the search. With that, the whole town turned out.
It did not take long to find the butler’s body. It had become lodged in the shallows under the sweeping branches of a weeping willow
He was an ugly sight. The marquess forced himself to examine the body, but it appeared that Alexander had died by drowning.
He thanked everyone, paid the man who had found the body first, and then left a sum at one of the largest inns with instructions to give free beer to the rest.
Then he swung himself back into the saddle, listening to the sounds of merriment coming from the pub and thinking that it was only a small consolation that it was such a small town. He would gladly have supplied the whole of a city with free beer to find some definite proof of how Alexander died.
His horse was clopping wearily out into the country, and the marquess, drooping in the saddle, was thinking longingly of Lucinda when he heard himself being hailed in a high, treble voice.
He reined in his horse and twisted about. A small boy was running down the road after him.
He came to a stop by the horse’s head and looked up at the marquess. He had a round head, a shock of blond hair, and very blue eyes. He looked as Germanic as most of the townspeople, showing that many of King George’s German soldiery had made their homes there during the last century.
“Are you a real marquess?” asked the boy.
“Yes,” said the marquess impatiently.
“Why haven’t you got a crown?”
“I have one at home on the shelf, a coronet. Have you stopped me simply to ask me impertinent questions about dress?”
“You was asking questions about that butler what was found yesterday.”
“Yes.”
“I saw what happened, but I told my ma and she said she’d whip me if I told anyone.”
The marquess dismounted. “Tell me,” he said.
A look of cunning crossed the boy’s face. “I’m a poor boy, my lord,” he whined.
The marquess fished in his pocket and produced a seven-shilling piece and held it up. The boy made a grab for it, but the marquess held it above his head, out of reach. “Talk,” he commanded.
“It won’t get back to my ma? You won’t tell nobody, me lord?”
“No.”
“I saw her,” said the boy.
“Who?”
“The old lady in the funny clothes and with the long cane. I stood on the bank to listen to the music and watch all the grand people. She said something to a big chap with a fat, white face and he bent and looked over the side of the boat at the back. She said something else and he leaned farther. Then—my, she was the spry one!—she nips round behind him and drives that cane of hers into his back. Over he goes. Splash!”
“And then?”
“And then she takes her reticule and rips it open and all them pound notes flutter out on the water. I catched as many as I could. I’m a good swimmer.”
“But the butler, Alexander, did he not cry for help?”
“I heard him shouting, but I was that busy getting the money. Then I ran home and got whipped by my ma, who said I’d stole it, and when I told her, she whipped me again for lying. When the news came around about the butler, then she believed me, but she told me to keep quiet ‘cause you can’t go around accusing grand folks of murder, she says, or you end up in the dock yourself. And then she kep’ the money, see.”
The marquess silently handed the boy the seven shilling piece. He snatched it and ran off down the road toward the town as fast as he could.
Wearily, the Marquess of Sunningburgh mounted his horse. He felt sure the boy had been telling the truth. But what if he brought the evidence before the law? The boy would deny it, the authorities would pooh-pooh the idea of so great and old a lady committing murder. He must first get Lucinda out of London.
On his return, he consulted his cards and invitations, trying to guess which event Lucinda would be most likely to attend.
He then changed into his evening clothes and stuffed all the invitations for that evening into his pocket. He would drop in at all of them in the hope of finding her.
Lucinda was not at Lady Berry’s ball; she was not at Almack’s; neither was she at the opera. But at last he ran her to earth at a musicale at the Earl of Queensford’s mansion, next door to his own, in Park Lane.
Because of the sultriness of the weather, the musicale was being held in the Queensfords’ large garden at the front of the house. He exchanged a few greetings with friends and then stood in the darkness at the back of the audience, waiting for a chance to talk to Lucinda.
She was wearing a gown of gold tissue and her hair was dressed in a coronet on top of her head. She wore no ornament in her hair, but a heavy necklace of gold and rubies blazed at her neck. As if conscious of his presence, she turned her head.
He moved forward into the light and raised his hand.
She gave a jerky little nod of assent, a signal that she would try to be private with him.
A soprano was murdering Mozart, her shrill voice slicing through the warm, pleasant air and setting two disrespectful cats to start up in competition. The Earl of Queensford saw his guests growing bored and restless and put an end to the caterwauling by walking forward and saying testily, “Enough of that. Be quiet, woman.”
The soprano stopped in midshriek and stared at him haughtily. She had been engaged by Lady Queensford and did not recognize the earl. Her chest swelled and she nodded to the pianist to continue. The earl summoned two footmen who lifted the outraged soprano and carried her off.
But the concert continued. The soprano was replaced by a young Pole. He was extremely handsome in a white-faced, tortured, romantic way. “Byronic,” murmured the ladies, brightening perceptibly.
Only Lucinda fidgeted with her fan and prayed his performance would not last very long.
He played several pieces with verve and skill. The ladies applauded loudly and demanded more. The gentlemen yawned. Three more lengthy encores and finally he was finished.
Supper was announced. The guests rose, prepared to move indoors, but Lord Queensford said proudly that they would dine al fresco. A whole army of servants and caterers descended on the garden while the guests shuffled to one side. In very little time, the staff had carried out tables and chairs and hung lanterns in the trees. Chattering and laughing with delight, the guests took their places.
Lucinda hoped her grandmother would eat her usual hearty meal, for the old lady always fell asleep after a good supper.
At first, the countess picked at her food, her eyes constantly raking the guests. At last, she appeared to be satisfied that the one face she feared might be present was not and tucked into a large helping of buttered crab and washed it down with a bottle of champagne. The old countess found that French champagne activated the brain wonderfully and kept the ghosts at bay. She called for more. A plan for getting rid of the Marquess of Sunningburgh was beginning to form in her brain.
Lucinda, as the gargantuan meal plowed on, covertly observed her grandmother’s sparkling eyes and began to lose hope of getting a chance of seeing the marquess alone.
But quantities of champagne at last made it necessary for the countess to find somewhere to relieve herself. This involved a great deal of preparation, for the countess was, as ever, attired in her antique, cumbersome dress. Closed stools and chamber pots had been placed in discreet corners of the garden, but the countess knew the Queensfords’s mansion boasted a water closet and asked her footman to escort her there. Although belonging to a coarser generation, the old countess thought the modern practice of putting funny rhymes at the bottom of chamber pots in bad taste. She had, only the other day, sent two new ones back to the manufacturer because one bore the legend:
Use me well and keep me clean,
And I’ll not tell what I have seen.
And the other was embl
azoned with:
It never yet was deem’d a wonder
To see that rain should follow thunder.
Lucinda waited until her grandmother had disappeared into the house and got to her feet. Several of the other guests had finished their meal and were strolling about. She neatly sidestepped various gallants until she met the marquess. Silently they moved off together around the side of the house, away from the lights and from the chatter of the guests.
“Well?” he demanded. “Did you ask her?”
“Yes,” said Lucinda softly. “All is well. She seems quite pleased that I am going and has asked me to take most of the servants with me.”
“When?”
“Next Wednesday.”
“Set out at ten in the morning,” said the marquess. “I shall catch up with you on the road and we can travel together.”
Lucinda fell silent, staring at her feet.
“What is the matter, my sweet?” he asked.
Lucinda looked up. “I am worried,” she said. “I do want to marry you, but I am so afraid.”
He took her in his arms and she leaned her head against him. “You have no reason to be afraid of me.”
“I am not afraid of you any longer,” she said, her voice muffled. “I am afraid of myself. What if I have inherited some traits of madness? What if we have a son and he turns out like my father? Oh, if only I knew Grandmama had not killed anyone, then I feel I could be at peace.”
He had meant to tell her about his findings. Now, he thought it would be folly. She would feel obliged to stay unmarried. He would marry her first and cope with her murdering grandmother afterward.
“It will be all right,” he said soothingly. “The love between us is precious and rare and sane. Kiss me. We are the only people who matter.”
She shyly raised her lips to his, feeling his passion for her, feeling her own swelling to meet it. Behind them in the garden, the noise died briefly and the countess could be heard loudly demanding the presence of her granddaughter.
